


This Is Halloween

by MyChemicalRachel



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Blowjobs, Clowns, Halloween, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-01
Updated: 2014-11-01
Packaged: 2018-02-23 11:13:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2545475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyChemicalRachel/pseuds/MyChemicalRachel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frerard.<br/>Clowns and blowjobs.<br/>Halloween one-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Is Halloween

The lights are down around me, the room cloaked in nothing but the black shadows. They seem to swallow me whole. Darkness envelopes the curtains that hang only parted an inch or so to my left, the silver moonlight streaming in, a single metallic sliver of light casting an eerie glow on everything it touches. I shift on the mattress, though it creaks in protest in the silence. That’s all that hangs around me, a heavy weight of noiseless air, dense and hot and broken through with the faint sound of keys pinging in a pitch that sends shivers down my spine.

“Don’t do it,” I mutter into the quiet room. The laptop moves as I do, leaning forward to shake my head disapprovingly at the screen. Flashes of dark scenes flicker across my face, glimmering in my eyes and reflecting back the movie. “Fucking idiot.” On the laptop, a girl creeps forward in the dark house, the distinct music slowly growing louder. Between her fingers is twisted the handle of a knife, the blade glinting deviously in some unseen light as floorboards creak beneath her steps. “She’s gonna die,” I decide, sighing a little. “Fucking idiot, you’re going to die.”

The girl rounds a corner, her breathing now rugged and uneven even though she has done literally nothing to make her winded. Just at that moment, the door to my bedroom swings open, artificial light streaming in in a blinding rush. Standing in the doorway is a looming figure, slender and silhouetted black against the light. With no distinct features, I think I see the hint of a pale mask. Suddenly the movie is forgotten and the only thing running through my mind is “ _holy shit, I’m going to die!_ ”

I know I should do something to defend myself, but my only reaction is a scream, pushing it’s way past my lips in a pitch higher than I care to admit. And then the figure in the doorway jumps and, just as quickly, his scream is mingling with my own and we just stay there for a long moment screaming at each other.

When the sounds die down, my throat burns and the light flicks on overhead. I’m momentarily blinded, but I catch sight of the figure in the doorway, now clutching his chest and breathing as hard as I am. “Mikey!” I exclaim, scowling at my brother. “What the hell is your problem!?”

“ _My_  problem?” He retorts, cursing under his breath and leaning against the doorframe to steady himself. “You’re the one who just started screaming bloody murder!”

“Because I thought you were a serial killer,” I roll my eyes and shove the computer off of my lap. Running a hand through my greasy black hair-- and making a side note to wash it later. When’s the last time I actually washed it?-- I settle back against the headboard. “What are you doing here anyway? I thought you were going trick-or-treating with Pete.” Though my brother was sixteen years old, he was still determined to go around begging for candy on Halloween night, and somehow he had roped his boyfriend into going with him. And even though Mikey was a year younger than me, he still had better luck with guys than I did…

A frown settles on Mikey’s lips and he scoffs. “Pete’s being an ass,” He replies, but shrugs unbothered. “I called Ray to hang out and we’re going to the Terror-torium. It’s that haunted house over on Fleet Street. So get off your ass and put on pants, you’re coming.”

My brow crinkles and I shake my head. “No I’m not.”

Mikey narrows his eyes and nods curtly. “Yes you are. Now put on some damn pants.” Without waiting for another response which, undoubtedly, was just going to be more weak arguments on my side, he turns and leaves me alone. I could lay here in my boxers and finish my movie, but that option doesn’t sound any more appealing than following Mikey and Ray to some lame haunted house. So with an exasperated groan, I roll out of bed and search for a pair of jeans.

I immediately regret my decision as soon as I climb out of Ray’s car. The haunted house isn’t very busy for being Halloween night. There’s a small queue outside the arched doorway waiting in groups of three or four for entrance. And right at the front of the line, taking money and directing people into the darkened building, is a fucking clown.

I freeze on the sidewalk, shaking my head determinedly. Mikey comes up behind me, rolling his eyes, and tries to push me onward, but I refuse. “Stupid haunted houses, I can deal with,” I mutter, my voice bitter as I grind my teeth. “Reruns of horror movies and bad facepaint and fake blood, I can deal with that. But clowns? No. There is no way you’re making me go in there.”

Ray appears next to me, an amused smirk playing around the corners of his lips. “You’re afraid of clowns?”

I remain silent, my eyes locked on the man at the entrance. He’s in a ripped flannel shirt and torn jeans, fake splatters of dark blood smeared all over the clothing. His real hair is hidden, tucked away under a vibrant green wig, the plastic hair grungy and matted and sticking up in various directions. On his face is blotched white and red paint, already wiping off in some places to reveal his real olive-toned skin, and right in the center of his face is a huge red nose.

I settle with a curt nod. “Yes.”

Mikey chuckles to my other side and nudges my shoulder with his own. “Gerard saw  _IT_  when we were little,” He explains. “Scarred him for life.”

“That movies scars everyone for life,” I snap, whipping my head around to shoot him a glare before glancing back at the entrance. A woman dressed up as a broken doll is emerging from the shadows, leaning close to the clown to say something before he nods and disappears into the Terror-torium. The doll takes his place, leaning back against the painted wall, depicting in rough detail a graveyard, and grins at the next people in line.

“There,” Mikey mutters, nudging me again. This time, I allow myself to be pushed forward a little. “The clown is gone. Can we go in now?”

I make a weak noise of protest, but decide that it’s safe for the most part and we make our way into the line. It only takes a few minutes for us to be up, the doll smiling cheerfully. I make Mikey pay for my ticket-- my own feeble attempt at revenge for dragging me here in the first place-- and we’re let inside.

The first room is nothing less than ridiculous. A few plastic skeletons hang along the walls, illuminated by a couple varyingly placed blacklights. A TV flickers nothing but static in one corner, a low buzzing noise filling my ears. “This is stupid,” I mutter, leaning close to Mikey. “Like… Worst haunted house ever.”

“It might get better,” Mikey replies, but he doesn’t sound convinced of his own words.

There’s a hallway, painted black and white with a shaking floor, leading to the next room. The noise of a chainsaw starts up but fades just as quickly, followed instantly by a maniacal laughter. I’m completely prepared for Leatherface to appear wielding his signature weapon and groaning incoherently, but instead what jumps out scares me even more.

The same clown from before leaps out from the shadows, arms raised in an intimidating gesture, and the laughter, nearly screamed, sounds again. I don’t really think about what I’m doing before I reach out with flailing arms and one fist connects with the clown’s nose. The red nose falls off, skittering across the floor and disappearing. The clown instantly shrinks back, grabbing his face, and I hear his muted response. “Agh, mother _fucker!_  Oh fuck, yeah that’s blood.  _Shit_  fuck.”

The clown seems to be swallowed by the shadows once more, vanishing into nowhere. Mikey and Ray, ahead of me by this point, have already disappeared into the next room. I hear Ray’s laughter along with the sound of another chainsaw. I let out a sigh and head on after them, shaking out my hand which now pulsates with the thrum of my heartbeat. I’ve never actually punched anyone before and stretch my fingers out, surprised by the sting it causes on this side of hitting someone.

Somehow, with my bad luck, I manage to get lost. I decide that Mikey and Ray must have been brutally murdered and were now being recruited for the skeleton war because I can’t find them anywhere. I end up going off-course at some point and, instead of finding another scary room, I find myself stumbling through a side door out into the cool night air. I shrug, straightening my jacket and deciding that an exit was just as well-- I’ll wait for Mikey and Ray in the car and hope that they weren’t killed.

When I look up, my eyes adjusting to the dark, I hesitate. There are a few picnic tables set around at various angles, all of them vacant aside from one. At one table near the door I just escaped from is a person. The ripped flannel of their shirt is illuminated under the lights streaming around from nearby streetlamps. He’s lying back on the top of a picnic table, stretched out with his feet hanging off the edge, a lit cigarette dangling from his fingers. The green wig he’d been wearing earlier is discarded, resting near his hip and allowing his real black hair to fall freely.

The clown brings the cigarette to his lips, inhaling deeply before releasing a puff of smoke into the cool air. I feel mesmerized, both captivated and terrified in the same instant, as I stand there watching him. He’s oblivious to my eyes on him and I feel like a creep, but I can’t move. The smoke filling the air and dispersing into the cold around him, the way his foot taps to some unheard beat, I can’t tear my eyes away. And then he’s flicking the butt of the cigarette away and sitting up, grabbing the wig and turning to face me.

He stops as soon as he sees me and we just stand there for a long moment, staring at each other. Slowly, his lips quirk up into a sly smirk, his eyes narrowing, and he takes a step closer. “You’re the asshole who punched me.”

I thank God it’s dark out because I can feel my face heating up with embarrassment. I quickly shake my head, my mouth opening and closing a few times. There’s no use in denying it, as he clearly recognizes me, but I feel the need to say something. “I didn’t mean to,” I manage to sputter. “I just…” I swallow hard and bite down on my lip. “I fucking hate clowns.”

The clown takes another step closer, the wig hanging loose at his side. “Don’t worry about it,” He muses. “You almost broke my nose, but--” He shrugs. “I got another smoke break, so I’ll forgive you.” He takes another step closer. By now, he’s a mere foot away. I feel like a cornered dog, my legs shaky suddenly but not from fear. “So what are you doing out here?” He wonders, tilting his head to one side to study me. His lower lip juts out in a tiny pout that I find much more attractive than I should. He's patronizing me. “Did you get scared?”

“No,” I reply, offended. I narrow my eyes at him. “I got lost.”

The clown laughs, a sound very different from the maniacal cackle he had inside. It’s a sweet sound. “How do you get lost in a haunted house? It’s literally a straight line.”

I shrug, a gesture meant to be more defiant than it comes off as. “Well after I punched you, I seemed to have taken a wrong turn. I ended up out here and I’m kind of thinking about punching you again.”

He’s right in front of me, his chest nearly touching mine, and I see the streetlights reflecting in his dark eyes. I can’t make out the color-- brown, or hazel maybe?-- but they seem to captivate me just as much as the smoke. He smirks again, leaning up into my personal space. My breathing seems to stop. “I can think of some other things you can do to me,” He replies. His voice is lower, taking on a seduction that sends chills up my spine that has nothing to do with the temperature. I never thought I’d be attracted to a clown, but here I was. Ten minutes ago, I punched him and now I wanted to tangle my hands in his hair and kiss him. So I do just that.

His hair is slick between my fingers, the black lacing through like silk, and I tug on a few strands. His lips are warm on mine, soft and fierce, demanding and sweet. His hands fist into the front of my jacket, pulling me closer and pushing me back all at once until my back collides with the wall. I can feel him grinning into the kiss, that smug smile making me bite down on his lip and eliciting a moan instead.

The kiss goes on for a few moments before the night air is filled with the sounds of our pants, the slick noise of his lips working against mine. I can feel the warmth wrapping around me like a fist, clamping down and tightening, this clown and I pressed together.

I’m the first to pull away. My brain is clearly lacking oxygen because it doesn’t seem possible that I’m making out with a complete stranger--  _who is dressed as a clown_ \-- and yet here we are. He doesn’t seem to mind, his lips instantly attaching to my neck. His teeth graze the skin at the base of my throat and I let out an embarrassing whimper. His body is pressed flat against mine, his hands wandering down the front of my jacket to the button of my jeans. Suddenly, I don’t care how much oxygen my brain is lacking because all of the blood in my body is rushing down to where his hands brush against the crotch of my pants. In only seconds, the button and zipper are both undone, one hand slipping into my boxers. His fingers are cold at first and I automatically cringe against the chill, but the sparks, the friction of his hand against my erection, has me moaning again. His tongue is twirling in circles across my neck, no doubt leaving bruises that will show tomorrow, but all I can think is that I want more.

When the clown pulls away, my heart sinks, but immediately starts pounding again at a faster pace when he sinks to his knees, my jeans and boxers following him down. He grins up at me through lust filled eyes, biting down on his lip in a way that makes me want to melt. My stomach flutters, my palms feeling sweaty, my fingertips numb. “Fuck…” I mutter, not really able to form any other words.

The clown simply smirks, his eyes meeting mine as he leans closer and closes the distance between us. His mouth is hot and wet as his lips form perfectly around the very tip of my dick. It’s a teasing gesture and my hips involuntarily thrust forward. He hums around me disapprovingly and shakes his head, pushing my hips back to the wall. I let out another strangled whimper and murmur a barely audible, “Fuck.  _Please_. Please…”

He seems satisfied with this response, humming again and sending vibrations through me. He lowers his head, sliding forward and allowing his tongue to graze the bottom of my shaft. When he pulls back, he exhales slowly and slides his tongue along the slit. I moan again and let out a string of curse words. The clown leans back ever so slightly, grinning slyly. “You better keep it down,” He suggests. “You wouldn’t want anyone hearing us.”

But without even giving me a chance to silence my next moan, his mouth is back on me. He moves one hand away from my hips, trailing his fingertips lightly across my thigh to gently stroke me with the same agonizingly slow pace. I pull at the handfuls of his hair I still grasp, letting my eyes close as my head falls back against the hard wall. He seems to get the hint because soon his sucking becomes sloppier, his stroking faster, his hand tightening around me.

I give one last, rough tug on his hair, trying to jerk him away as some sort of warning. “Fuck, I’m…” But before the words can leave my mouth, I’m cumming hard, the orgasm shaking my body and spewing out into the clown’s awaiting mouth.

I decide absently that he definitely has some experience with this as he slows his pace, swallowing me down and wiping a few drops from the corner of his mouth before pulling my jeans back up for me and grinning. I feel exhausted, leaning against the building and sighing.

Staring at him, I’m not really sure what to say. Somehow, I manage to form words. “I’m sorry I punched you.”

The clown laughs, the red makeup on his lips smeared more than it was initially, and I wonder how much of that facepaint is on me now. He shrugs. “I bet you’re not afraid of clowns anymore.”

I let out a breathy chuckle and nod in agreement. The clown’s smile falters and he gestures with one hand toward the door leading back into the Terror-torium. “I should probably get back to work, but… um… Do you think I can see you again? You know, maybe without the red nose and wig? You  _did_  punch me, the least you can do it buy me dinner.”

He chuckles, but his voice is unsure. His confidence from before seems to have melted away and he fidgets nervously with the hem of his shirt, his eyes hopeful. I settle with a grin, reaching out to wrap a hand around the back of his neck and pulling him in for another kiss. “Gerard,” I mumble against his lips. “And yes. I want to see you again.”

His eyes glint again in the light when he pulls back and digs a sharpie from some hidden pocket of his costume. He pushes the sleeve of my jacket up, scribbling a phone number down on my arm in the messy black ink. Then he stands up on the tips of his toes and closes the distance between us in one last kiss before trailing his lips to my ear. I can hear the smile in his voice when he speaks again. “Happy Halloween, Gerard. I’m Frank.”


End file.
